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Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir.

Emily Dickinson

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Emily Dickinson
Age: 55 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 10
Died: 1886
Died: May 15
Poet
Writer
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
Ai-mi-li Ti-chin-sen
Emilia Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
Faults
Surgeon
Call
Surgeons
Dies
Bone
Rather
Frankly
Tell
Editing
Men
Editors
Fault
Wince
Bones
Commend

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Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
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... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.
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Truth - is as old as God-.
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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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The Service without Hope Is tenderest, I think-- ... There is no Diligence like that That knows not an Until
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You are out of the way of temptation and out of the way of the tempter - I didn't mean to make you wicked - but I was - and am - and shall be - and I was with you so much that I couldn't help contaminate.
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That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.
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I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!
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Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
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I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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His Cheek is his Biographer- As long as he can blush.
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Friends are nations in themselves.
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